Alt Lit and Rape Culture - Further Reading - Poems on Rape Culture

I wish I had all the room in the world to publish every one of the moving, the grotesque, the angry, the sadly matter-of-fact poems and stories writers sent in for the alt lit and rape culture series. In lieu of that, and concluding the micro-series of poems on rape culture, here are some more poems, published in other platforms, for you to read. --SBB

From Two Objects and a Girl, by Staci R. Schoenfeld:

She’s all instinct and scent. Smells too much of her father. He’s been sniffing around. Her fur has come in and her ears grow long. She’s skittish. On guard.

From Crazy Daisies, by Sarah Certa:

. . . the voice
so big there’s no room
for you except in the corner, folded
like a balding swan
into your naked self, all the corners, all the
flowers to say I’m sorry, baby, I love you, they’re crazy
daisies, I got them
for us because we’re crazy
like that, he would say things
like that . . .

From The Rapist Joins AA, in the chapbook And I Shall Again Be Virtuous, by Natalie Eilbert:

Was the only night I ever drove drunk. The dark was not God’s back turned away.

Very drunk.

Drove slowly, imagined my car reeling home on a thick yellow string.
The machine I would carry also imagined this thick yellow string.

Parked delicately in a diner parking lot. Was worried an idle car
on the shoulder would spark interest. Was a very smart girl.

From In the Oven, by Jessica Reidy:

She said, Go on, tell the doctor. You hurt yourself doing cartwheels.

          The membrane glowed under surgical light.
          Mucinous fluid made a full moon, an oven lamp,
          that lit the room as I counted backwards:
I'll fuck you dead.

From It's a Guy Thing, by Jude Marr:

Bone withers in the aftermath.
I wipe my face on your sleeve
before you go.

From Someday, in the chapbook The Glass Sponge, by Jules Jacob:

You kicked the dog
and waited for my reaction,
predictably forgetting
I didn’t live for you anymore.

From The best part of sexual assault is how you can't pass the Bechdel Test anymore, by Sonya Vatomsky:

There aren't do-overs here. No summer school, no tutors. You're just a one trick pony for a while,
and your one trick is isolating yourself
from friends
from coworkers
from strangers, even
because nobody, literally nobody, wants to hear what you've got to say.

From The Way Mommy Bear Eats a Swam of Fire Ants, by Kim Hyesoon, translated from the Korean by Choi Don Mee:

that there are only things that run away when they see me
like the enormous gray bear that sleeps while it walks
like the enormous black lace cloud fluttering above eyelids
like the dump truck leaking dribbles of oil in the middle of a desert
like the house with rotten stairs and six feet of dust collected in the ceiling
that there is no one except me standing all alone

Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here.

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - Service - Chelsea Carter

Though this essay series has focused on rape culture and literary communities, we know it permeates as many subcultures as society creates. Chelsea Carter, a veteran of the Marine Corps, examines the effects and experience of rape culture in the military in her poem "Service." "Service" is part of her thesis "Read Without Listening" at the University of Washington, which is under a five-year embargo and will be released for public viewing at a much later date. --SBB

(Use the dropdown menu next to the "open" button in the menu bar of the PDF to view the poem full-size in the Lumin PDF viewer.) 


Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here. 

Chelsea Carter is a veteran of the United States Marine Corps and a graduate of the University of Washington with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Poetics. 

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - XXXIV - Sonnet L'Abbe

In the series Sonnet's Shakespeare, Sonnet L'Abbé undertakes an ambitious and exciting artistic project. As she describes it, the speaker is "a 21st-century person [who] claims Shakespeare's page, his/another culture's traditional territory, as newly his own. In these palimpsestic poems, he assimilates Shakespeare's original language into his own love-/hate-letter monuments to the contemporary world." I was floored when I read this poem--both its themes and its practice seek to dismantle the systems that hold rape culture in place. Read Sonnet's poem, "XXXIV," and her description of the project, "Eco-Ionizing Sonnets: Talking Over An Old Boy," below. --SBB

XXXIV

Why did those students hoot at uproar condemning sexual assault? Chanting diatribes that support sex without consent, adamant boys manifest, demanding unchecked freedom. Free to ravish damsels for thrills? Words like that distort, students imply. Chicks like innocent rape jokes. To let bra-burners restrict redblooded undergrads and overtake campus shenanigans is mollycoddling, fellows say; fuck chiding, feminist hysteria: bravery is in not chastening our hormonal birthright. Women’s movements cockblock ketamine seductions, although still women swallow drugs that gloating frat hazers coolly put in gin. Fresh meat, they’re called by (joking!) studs. Outside the bounds set by caretakers, teens’ disorder symptomizes harsh gender ranking enforcement. My sisters’ norm-beaten faces flirt, worried no man will quell moms’ fears of unchosen daughters alone forever. Who can speak a stuff that heals the culture’s wound, and cures not only the disgrace of normed crime, and the crying shame of psychological violence, but is also physic to misogyny and grief? The young hotheads mock, unrepentant yet; girls behave as though, ironically, it’s their loss; the offenders’ lack of sorrow doubly offends. Bullies tweet naked pictures of un-Liked ex-girlfriends. To him, that boner, wearing a shirt hardselling ass-trollness in big font (“fuck safe space”) – a dunce’s cap. Porn-bossed mouthbreathers blurt that no means yes, that tears are pearl necklaces which hot rough involuntary love sheds. Amanda, Rehtaeh, Audrie, you are remembered – by a girl of colour, who anonymously endured handsome lady-killers’ ill deeds.

Eco-lonizing Sonnets: Talking Over An Old Boy

North American contemporary poetry has seen a recent surge in poets practicing erasure poetry, an approach in the avant-garde collage tradition, where the poet takes another writer's text and "writes" by deleting words from the original until a new "edit," a new poem, remains. The most pertinent example for this project would be American poet Jen Bervin's 2004 book Nets,which she made by erasing words/letters from Shakespeare's Sonnets. 

The author in erasure practice has been compared to an editor, to the pruner of a shrub, and to one who "opens" the text to "ventilate" it. I think erasure practitioners can also be compared to censors, to deleters of authorly expression. Like-minded Canadian poets nourbeSe philip, Shane Rhodes and Jordan Abel have all used erasure (on legal documents as well as other writers' texts) to allegorize the censorial practices of colonialism.

But another strategy colonizers have used, besides attempting to eradicate extant cultures, is to reframe the stories of colonized people, to "talk over" existing voices so loudly that the cultures are, at important levels of voice, silenced. Though colonizers often nearly destroy the legibility and foregrounding of the presence of original cultures, they are never fully successful at erasing the original cultures they mean to displace. 

I am similarly successful and unsuccessful when I write, from the perspective of both colonizer and colonized, over the "traditional territory" of English literature and attempt to impose upon it my own descriptions of the world. This is a different mode of erasure, one that hides the original text in plain sight, and attempts a muted bivocality in the reading experience. The original poem exists in its entirety on the same page, but reading it requires a cultural knowledge that remembers what to look for. 

For example, the first words of Shakespeare's "Sonnet 31" are: 

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts.

The first line of my colonized sonnet, "XXXI," is as follows: 

The academy sabotages promising energies by demonizing a real world.

I have written over forty of the 154 sonnets, and plan to write over all of them to create the complete manuscript. I trust that the "vanity plate" nature of the title makes sense given the alignment of the stars, and the context of my themes.

Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here. 

Sonnet L'Abbé, Ph.D. is a Canadian poet and literary critic.

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - testimony (the first apocalypse) - Marty McConnell

After reading "testimony (the first apocalypse)," by Marty McConnell, I just couldn't get it out of my head: the sinister atmosphere, the "willing" and their desire to be "chosen," and the implication that violence waits for all of us. --SBB

testimony (the first apocalypse)

A:          Once upon a time, there was a creature

with the face of a bear and the body

of a lizard. Could swim

and climb trees, shake

the young cubs by the loose scruff

at the back of their necks.

The creature loved the sun.

Afternoons it would find

a broad rock and lie there, gleaming.

But soon the heavy, furry head

would begin to sweat. So the creature

licked its claws and torso and tufted

head with a broad and cooling tongue,

and ambled off to a shady bed.

B:         Once upon a time, there was a creature

with the face of a bear and the body

of a lizard. Could swim and climb trees,

shake the young cubs by the loose scruff

at the back of their necks like a mother.

How marvelous its skin was, tough and shining

in places. The creature loved the sun.

Afternoons it would find a broad rock

and lead the willing there to watch it gleam.

But soon the heavy, furry head would begin

to sweat. Reluctant to abandon

this perfect spot, the creature

asked who among the cubs

cooling themselves

would be willing to bring it

a drink. All the willing were willing

so it chose among the oldest. Such

a fine job it did bringing the water,

the creature offered some creature

wisdom, querying My dear, what kind

of creature do you want to be? And the sun

and the rock did not look away

as the cubs kept dozing in the shade, their long fur

moving sweetly with their breathing.

C:         Once upon a time, there was a creature

with the face of a bear and the body

of a lizard. Could swim and climb trees,

shook the young cubs by the loose scruff

at the back of their necks like a mother

or rough cousin. How marvelous

its skin was, tough and shining

in places, and bright teeth

shown only to keep the wolves away.

Most of all, the creature loved the sun.

Afternoons it would find a broad rock

and lead the willing there

to watch it gleam. But soon

the heavy, furry head would begin

to sweat. Reluctant to abandon

this sought-after spot, the creature

asked who among the cubs

cooling themselves in its shadow

would be willing to bring it

a drink. All the willing were willing

so it chose among the oldest, the one

with the most luxurious coat. Such

a fine job it did bringing the drink, over

and over, the creature offered

it a secret. Do you want

to know the secret, it asked.

Yes, the willing answered,

yes tell me the secret. The secret

isn’t told, the creature said. The secret

is given. And with that licked

the willing’s furred paw with a broad

tongue, the hair coming away

in clumps. The secret hurts a little,

the willing said, not pulling away

the paw. But look what’s underneath

said the creature, pausing

for another swig. What kind of creature

do you want to be? And the sun

and the rock did not look away

and the cubs kept dozing

in the shade, their long fur

moving with their breathing,

knowing someday they too

would be ready, brighter, chosen.

Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here. 

Poet and educator/coach Marty McConnell lives, works, and teaches in Chicago, Illinois. Find more at www.martyoutloud.com.

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - Good Girls' Belief System and others - Margaret Bashaar

These three poems by Margaret Bashaar come from a longer series of poems, each of which, in Margaret's words, deals "assault, rape, shaming, imbalance in sexual dynamics, guilt, silencing." The series is forthcoming from Crisis Chronicles Press in 2015 as part of their second Oct. Tongue anthology. --SBB

Good Girls' Belief System

You will believe for many years –

23 at least – you sprang fully-formed

from the head of a man

not your father, that the nape of your neck

is where the evil slips in if you let it.

You will believe in things like genetic

memory and the body as divining rod,

drawn deep into the earth. We all want

to escape the fear of blood. We all want

to find ourselves wrist-deep in it one day.

You will read and burn a thousand

mythologies of the violence we do

on each other

on ourselves.

Girl on Girl Action

We are all fish held firmly in the jaws of other fishes,

don’t understand why we all keep eating our young,

every day a new cannibalism.

Take each other down with bites to the neck

like good monsters. Pretend you never heard the story

of the Wendigo, the werewolf.

Pretend you did not sculpt yourself a new set of teeth

with serrated points.

Just When You Think You Learned to Forget

There is a door that swings open and shut.

On one side, a room and you are in the room

and you are alone and though there are no windows

you eat, you sleep, you walk back and forth

and that is good.

On the other side, the sound of a train,

something that is either yelling or a whole pack of dogs,

glass shattering over and over.

Sometimes the door swings open and later you find

a glass shard beneath your thumbnail.

Sometimes the door swings open and you can smell

the breath of a creature that is not you.

Sometimes you hold the door open,

wait for the train to come.

Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here. 

Margaret Bashaar is the editor of Hyacinth Girl Press and her first book, Stationed Near the Gateway, is coming out from Sundress Publications in 2015.

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - Even Though We Were Vegetarian - Shevaun Brannigan

Multiple essays in this series have come to the conclusion that one of the best tools we have for fighting rape culture is our art. By writing and publishing and promoting the stories of survivors over those of the abusers, we can change the cultural narrative. With this goal in mind, Delirious Hem presents this micro-series of poems dealing with rape, assault, abuse, and rape culture. Read what Shevaun has to say about her decision to publish this poem here. --SBB

Even Though We Were Vegetarian

At any moment we are no more than six feet from a spider.

One night, as you slept, I watched one

appear on the horizon of your neck,

like in a Western, the hero returning—

it climbed over the dune of your body,

up the steep face of your chin, and almost

lurched into your open mouth,

two of its legs waving in the air like

the horse being pulled back from the canyon.

I watched all this without waking you, I watched

the spider dip its leg onto your tongue

and decide to proceed forward. 

Earlier that day we were at the fountain.

I stood with water around my ankles and stomped like

I was making wine, just to splash you. You said

I was being childish, I threw a nickel in the fountain

and said I wish you wouldn’t call me names,

it counted five times over. That was the day

you told me you were only staying with me so

I wouldn’t turn you into the police.  “Before you,” you said,

and I did, I mocked you in a whiny voice, because

I knew what was coming next. In unison we said,

“I was only afraid of mayonnaise.”

It had become the punch line of our relationship,

begun at a party where I lurked underneath my

ex-boyfriend’s arm, where my eyes further lurked

beneath thick bangs and makeup, scanning the room

and returning to you because you were laughing

at my shirt for power tools—I’ve Got Beaver Fever,

it said, while below, two beavers wielded chainsaws.

I liked a man with a sense of humor, which
I assumed explained your unibrow, your pants

tighter than tendons. You know this, and what followed:

your vomiting in the backyard, then coming up

to me with your hand over your mouth to ask for my number.

Days later, the courtship at the used bookstore

where you circled around me like a buzzard, until

you started pressing your body against mine,

brushing your mouth against my ear, unlike

any buzzard I’ve ever heard of—you started

whispering things filthier

than a D.H. Lawrence novel,

really hot stuff meant only for the bathtub.

We brought our bags of books to the car,

where you pawed at me like a breast-obsessed bear.

So I wasn’t wearing makeup the day of the party.

So my bangs were up. It’s my right

to change the story how I want to—just like how

after it happened I told you I had the right to call you

as many times at work as I wanted to in a day,

just to tell you to go to hell! and then hang up. 

If I leave out the day I took all the Ritalin and the kitchen knife

and barricaded you from the apartment, it’s for both our sakes.

After all, I may be crazy, but you were the one who proposed.

Next came the meeting of friends, the rushed merging of two lives

like hands interweaving to make a church and its steeple.

You impressed them with your guacamole recipe, but

everyone thought we were moving too fast, including us.

“We’re not sleeping together,” we would say,

 even though we were.

I’ve left out a six-foot-one problem, though, the ex-boyfriend.

I was still dating him on the side, which complicated things

when you and I moved in together.  Even my hairdresser was scandalized—

he called me his high maintenance client,

but maybe that was because of the bangs.

It was on his advice I decided to move out.

I can tell that I am moving too fast.

You were there. You know what happened.

I can slow down.

I can turn to the day

when everything shifted.

I had told you I was leaving.

I said we had to stop sleeping together.

I wanted to make things work with him.

You pretended it didn’t bother you, just

that you wanted a proper goodbye.

We were both naked. We had been messing around.

You were on top of me

when you penetrated.

I said no.

You kept going.

You said, this isn’t me doing this,

and then pulled out. Said,

that was me, the one who listened.

Penetrated again.

This isn’t me doing this

became your chant.

Then things became frantic.

You said we should go to the police

because you had just assaulted me,

I comforted you because other men

had done it before and I was fine.

Then more, you called your mother

who told you that you had done nothing

wrong: rapists don’t call their mothers

afterward, you called your ex-girlfriend,

the one who counseled assault survivors,

who said that this didn’t

count. And you convinced me to stay.

Then talk of your grandmother’s engagement ring,

and your mother and aunt took us shopping

for cheap, on trend furniture for our new life together.

I’d moved back in. I swear the apartment was now smaller,

we were always bumping into each other like

shopping carts at the grocery store. But I had my moments

alone. Like the weekend you were away for work, meaning

an intense two days of hotel sex, though it was

with one of your coworkers. I ordered movies

off of your pay-per-view account and let them play

in the other room on mute. And at night, when you slept so peacefully,

I paced through the rooms of our apartment and cried.

When I think of those nights, I think of the water tap

that never stopped leaking, no matter how many times

we talked about fixing it. That, and the shadows cast

by the window’s security bars. Sometimes I stood so they framed

my face, hoping I looked beautifully sad to the women hooking outside,

staring back at me, thinking, now there’s a girl with troubles.

Have something to say? Email comments, questions, responses, and links to relevant articles and literature elsewhere to: rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com. For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays and poems in the series, click here. 

Shevaun Brannigan has been published in Best New Poets 2012, among other journals, and leads workshops at her local Domestic Violence Shelter.

Alt Lit and Rape Culture - Flash Call for Literary Submissions

This is an open call for poems and/or other literary works on the themes of abuse, assault, rape, and rape culture. Selected works will run together in a single post alongside the ongoing series of essays on Rape Culture and Alt Lit on Delirious Hem. 

Submit one poem or other literary work to rapeculture.and.altlit [at] gmail [dot] com by midnight on Wednesday November 5 along with a one-sentence bio. Previously published pieces are great, but please include an acknowledgement and a link (if online) to the original publication. I will publish 3-5 poems and/or excerpts from longer works and links to at least a dozen previously published literary works. I will consider both previously published and unpublished pieces for a feature spot in the post. 

You've got 48 hours. (OK, you really have until 7 am on Thursday morning.) 

For the original call for submissions, see here. To read all the essays in the series, click here.